


A Very H.A.T.E.-ful Xmas

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Nextwave (Comic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-07
Updated: 2007-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>General Anger wept bitter, bitter tears of loneliness and frustration.  No one loved him, he hadn't gotten any Christmas cards, and Santa still hadn't brought him a live tyrannosaur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very H.A.T.E.-ful Xmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sascha

 

 

**A Very H.A.T.E.-ful Xmas.**

_(Story brought to you by the Beyond Corporation. H.A.T.E. and all related anti-terrorism efforts are  
trademarked subsidiaries of the Beyond Corporation.)_

Dirk Anger surveyed the colorful manger scene that graced the center of his control room with manly   
disdain and loathing. It was a very nice manger scene, with a serenely smiling Virgin Mary, a plump, blue-  
eyed Baby Jesus, and lots of fluffy sheep.

Dirk Anger, Supreme Military Commander of H.A.T.E., hated sheep. He had had a stuffed sheep as a   
child, and its beady glass eyed had watched him malevolently as he lay in bed, covers pulled to his chin,   
wondering if this would be the night that its soft, stuffed paws would strangle him in his sleep. He had had   
the last laugh, though. He had burned the **** stuffed toy alive with his mother's cigarette lighter. And   
who was laughing then, huh, SnuggleSheep? Who laughed then!?!

"What is that?" he demanded, pointing one callused, manly finger at the sheep-infested display.

"It's a crèche, General Anger," his personal assistant chirped perkily. "I had it set up this morning, while   
you were eating breakfast."

"This," Dirk said, addressing both himself and posterity in general, "is why we should never have allowed   
girls into H.A.T.E. Girls and their bleeding-heart, weak-willed Christmas decorations!"

(Actually, Dirk was rather fond of the red-and-green Christmas tree lights his assistant had tacked up   
around the control room the day before. They gave the place a nice, bloodstained glow, and blinked on and   
off in a pattern designed to subliminally brainwash people into buying Beyond Corporation Products. He   
had been very careful not to admit to this fondness, however, as he felt that liking Christmas lights might   
make him sound wussy.)

"We soldiers of H.A.T.E. are men," he went on. "Tough, manly men with hard, manly bits. We have no   
use for manger displays. We spit upon them and stomp them into matchwood."

"But, General Anger, sir," his personal assistant babbled, trying pathetically to explain herself, "the Beyond   
Corporation's sponsors require it. It was one of the conditions of our faith-based funding."

"Solder," Dirk ordered, "you will spit on that crèche and stomp it into matchwood."

"Yes, General Anger." His personal assistant gave it her best shot, her breasts bouncing appealingly--no,   
Dirk corrected himself, disgustingly. Girl bits were squishy and disgusting--as she punted the Baby Jesus   
across the room. When he hit the wall, he exploded.

She might be a girl, but she did occasionally make an effort to get into the spirit of things.

His personal assistant dusted off her pink uniform and returned to attention. "As I was saying before you   
asked about the decorations, sir, we have a new communiqué from headquarters."

"Well?" Dirk demanded, when a few moments' silence brought no further information.

"They wish all their employees at H.A.T.E. a happy and productive Xmas, and want us to step up the   
production schedule for the exploding fruit baskets."

"Did they say anything about my fearless efforts to track down NextWave, torture them to death, and feed   
their body parts to crazed weasels?"

"They want to know," his assistant checked the memo in her hand, "'why the **** it's taking so long,' sir."

No one appreciated the things he went through for H.A.T.E. Dirk excused himself, explaining to his   
secretary that he had important military business to attend to, and locked himself in his Top Secret No Girls   
Allowed commander's office, where he wept bitter, bitter tears of loneliness and frustration. No one loved   
him, he hadn't gotten any Christmas cards, and Santa still hadn't brought him a live tyrannosaur.

Really, he thought, sniffing and wiping the tear tracks off his firm, chiseled features, was a live dinosaur so   
much to ask for? But no, Santa never delivered, and the Pteromen he'd created to try and fill the giant-  
lizard-shaped hole in his life just hadn't been the same.

He'd really been looking forward to watching Fin Fang Foom eat people. Monica Rambeau always found a   
way to spoil his fun. But not forever. No, she wouldn't spoil his fun forever.

Dirk washed his face and emerged from his office; he had important things to do for H.A.T.E. The fight   
against freedom waited on no man, not even General Dirk Anger.

His resolve restored, Dirk went to the H.A.T.E. super-secret experimental firing range and began testing the   
Beyond Corporation's new line of exploding fruit baskets.

He had just blown up the fifth basket, showering the test-range and several useless grunts with radioactive   
pineapple pulp, when his personal assistant interrupted him. "Christmas card for you, General Anger," she   
chirped.

Finally! At least someone out there loved him!

It was a very nice card, with a tasteful copy of a Currier and Ives print on the front. It was even--Dirk   
checked the back--from Hallmark. He opened it warily, holding it away from his face on the off chance   
that his many, many enemies or ex-wife had rigged it to spray poison gas in his face.

"Wishing you the all the best of the season," it said, in fancy, girlified cursive. Beneath that, someone had   
neatly printed: "We will destroy you, Dirk Anger! Not even your tiny, newborn, fleshy god can save you!"   
It was signed, "Respectfully yours, NextWave," followed by a row of four signatures.

Monica hadn't signed it. Monica was a ****, and someday he would make her pay.

Dirk carried the card to the far side of the H.A.T.E. super-secret experimental firing range, affixed it to one   
of the targets, and blew the **** out of it with a bazooka. His mother had always told him to enjoy a gift   
in the spirit in which it was given.

Card destroyed, Dirk returned to the Aeromarine's control room, where he ordered the air crew to pinpoint   
the Shockwave Rider's current location. Behind him, the red-and-green lights blinked on and off, spreading   
H.A.T.E.-approved buying habits to all who viewed them. The blood-colored glow backlit him like the   
light of burning oil fields, or of a small town in the midwest engulfed in flames.

Dirk check his reflection in a nearby instrument panel, and stood up straighter, letting the light glint on the   
medals decorating his chest. He ground a wisp of cotton-batting that had one adorned a plastic sheep   
beneath his booted foot.

"Onward, men!" he ordered, in ringing tones. "Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men is un-American!   
Onward for H.A.T.E.!"

Maybe this Christmas, Santa would finally bring him that live tyrannosaur.

 


End file.
